


By the hour

by Spiria



Category: Final Fantasy XIII-2
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-06 07:37:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3126362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiria/pseuds/Spiria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[The Future is Hope] An accident temporarily cripples Hope, whose focus is then divided between the Academy's affairs and picking up the pieces with Noel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 10

**Author's Note:**

> For Koyu. I spent so long devising a context in which the boys could hug, only to brainstorm an entire story where said action occurs somewhere in some tiny scene that I've yet to picture in my head. But it will come!
> 
> The nature of this work isn't cohesive, given where I started. It's more a series of drabbles related to a fixed plot than a proper story, and the chapters won't be in chronological order. I'm sorry to say my attention span for writing is woefully short.

"Hope?" Noel waved from the doorway, his gaze wandering from the empty bed to the occupied desk against the wall. "Shouldn't you be asleep?"

Wiping his brow with the back of his exposed forearm, Hope straightened. The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled up to his elbows; the shirt he had worn to bed lay on the creased sheets under a careful pile of pillows. He looked over his shoulder, then shifted to face Noel. "I managed a few hours. What about you?"

Noel folded his arms as he gestured with a hand. "Couldn't sleep. Didn't the doctor tell you to get a lot of rest?"

Hope bowed his head, scrutinizing the datalog on his desk. He parted his parched lips, a half empty glass of water forgotten in the corner, searching his thoughts for a suitable answer.

"This is serious, Hope," said Noel.

"I know. But more reports are coming in by the hour." Hope lowered his head with an inward sigh. "I couldn't just sleep through them."

"The Academy's gotten this far with and without your help. If it's a few reports, they can hold their own for a while."

"It'll be months, Noel – months before I can walk again, provided the treatment works."

"Yeah. Maybe. That's why you need to rest." Moving away from the doorway, Noel approached the desk and eyed the brightly lit datalog shining under Hope's right hand. With a scowl, he grasped the illuminated hand by the wrist and raised it for inspection, heedless of the barest twitch he felt from Hope. "Are you having night sweats?"

With a resolute tug, Hope pulled his clammy hand free from Noel's grasp. Reminded of the sweat gathering on his brow, he staggered to keep his hands in place and away from his face. Unable to keep silent under Noel's inquisitive stare, he fingered the edge of the datalog as he answered, no, that was not from sleep.

"Are you hot?" asked Noel.

"I'll be fine. I'm not hot."

"All right," conceded Noel, nodding. "You get one more hour on that," he pointed to the datalog, continuing despite the quizzical glance and hum he received, "and then it's time for bed again. Want me to bring you more medicine?"

Hope stared, though not with contempt, before his tight features loosened to a weary smile. "Noel, you don't have to – "

"I do. It's been more than three days since Snow and Serah left me here; I know that. You're still under my protection, and that," he emphasized with a point, "means making sure you have your pain under control. So, do you want the capsule or the liquid?"

Flustered, Hope swallowed and wiped his face with the back of his trembling left hand. A light shade of red crossed his complexion, followed by more beads of slowly accumulating sweat. His breathing was rather shallow, he realized then, and punctuated the rigidity of his tense posture. After some deliberation, he asked for the capsule and saw the unfinished cup of water with a pointed glance.

Hope watched the doorway as Noel passed through and down the inky hall, his progress highlighted by the occasional flicker of lights where they were flipped on and off. Even in the apparent safety of the complex given to them by the Academy, Noel was swift, and he soon emerged from the dark with the foiled packet in question.

"One capsule," said Noel as he closed the gap between them, offering the medicine. Following that, he procured another item. "And one handkerchief."

With a tentative look, then a wry grin, Hope accepted the handkerchief and wiped his face. His skin still appeared slightly flushed and damp, though much drier than before. He took the capsule with the remaining water in the glass, then dabbed some more at his brow.

Noel reached for the empty glass, intending to return the cup to its proper place in the washer. "Remember," he warned in a firm tone, "one hour." It was ample time for a few more reports and the medicine to peak.

Hope gave the tiniest nod and turned his attention back to the datalog. As his eyes roamed in search of where he had left off, he was yet again drawn from the report at hand when Noel pulled up a spare chair and took his seat beside. "You're not going to bed?"

"No," said Noel, "but I will in an hour."

For a while, Hope sat in silence, studying Noel and the purposeful look on his face. With a careful intake of breath, he nodded. "One hour."


	2. Day 2

_. . . claims of a paradoxical nature, whose verity remains unknown. Considering the severity of the claim, a thorough investigation should be held by the Academy as resources allow, including meetings with all personnel who have been in significant contact with the individual over the last quarter. A follow-up interview has been scheduled and is to be conducted tomorrow . . ._

With the remaining time dwindling by the minute, the number of investigations had risen and the follow-up interview with Alyssa conducted posthaste in the morning. It was now mid-evening, and the report covering the latter was still pending finalization when Hope settled to pore over the preceding account in his current residence, his jaw propped up on the back of his fist.

The digital document of the account included a small footage of a secure room in which an Academy official had interviewed Alyssa, who appeared to be no more than a ghost of her old self. She tended to look down with her shoulders hunched, making herself as small as she sounded with no more words than were necessary, her voice thin and halting. Gone was the vibrancy she had once held to her dramatic character, replaced instead by a despondent figure that, every so often, raised her chin and looked the official with an expression of thinly veiled contempt. She was either unaware of the camera or willfully oblivious and ignoring the fact that she, an "unstable existence" by her own terms, was being recorded.

As the footage neared its conclusion, the soft, rhythmic taps of footsteps sounded and began to grow louder, overpowering the faint voice of the interviewer as Noel entered the living room. "Hey, Hope." He dropped onto the crouch and craned his neck to glimpse the datalog. "You're watching that again?"

"The Academy's working on the next report. It should be available soon, so I thought I'd refresh my memory beforehand."

Nodding, Noel procured an unlabeled drive that he held between his fingers. "Here."

Hope reached for the drive. "What is it?"

"They told me it was confidential, but I'm sure you know what it is. Anyway, I dropped by the Academy earlier, and the receptionist gave it to me."

"They finished the report?"

"Looks that way. Are you going to open it?"

Hope looked down at the ominous drive in his possession. With bated breath, he loaded the files onto the datalog and shuffled through the list, finding that there was more to the directory than a mere report of the second interview with Alyssa Zaidelle. Still, he booted that up first as he leaned back against the couch to allow Noel a better view; there was no sense in keeping secrets.

The report was considerably shorter than the first, suggesting a block in the interview that had likely been imposed by the interviewee herself. Numerous references to uncooperative behavior – _pursed her lips and declined to answer_ , _looked away while rubbing her arms_ , _made a face not unlike a sneer_ – confirmed Hope's suspicions as he skimmed the contents. The report held to no standard format, for it was off the records and the public database, and so read more like a journal than a scientific article.

"She refused to reveal anything," murmured Hope.

"Nothing at all?" asked Noel.

"The interview lasted the time slot, but nothing they did worked. She simply stopped speaking."

"She's stubborn, that one. Although you already knew that, huh?"

"Alyssa is headstrong. That obstinacy is what led to her numerous contributions to the Academy." Hope reined in a quiet sigh, his shoulders hunching over slightly. "If it weren't for her, my own research wouldn't have gone far."

"You would've found another way around it," said Noel with a wave. "You give her too much credit. I'm not denying that Alyssa helped the Academy, but you weren't exactly sitting around and twiddling your thumbs. You were out there and doing the same thing."

When Hope neglected to answer, Noel straightened, peeling away from the couch. He shifted to study Hope's impassive face and scowled. "Hope?"

"I had no idea. Not even the slightest suspicion. I knew she was opportunistic, but I didn't realize how deep that habit ran." Hope sighed. "Why Caius?"

Noel looked away, raking a hand through his hair. It was by far the hardest question to answer of the bunch, and he had admitted during the brief interview as one of the "personnel in contact with the individual" that he had not an inkling as well. Yet, when Hope posed the question again, he narrowed his eyes and thought hard, his forehead rested on his knuckles – then jerked upward. "The Purge."

Hope knit his brows. "The Purge? It's true that Alyssa was a victim, but . . . "

"You know that she has nightmares, right?" asked Noel.

Hope drew back, frowning, and nodded. 

"She said they always felt real," explained Noel. "The fear, the pain – everything was so real that she would confuse dream with reality. In her dreams, she always died . . . Could that have piqued Caius' interest?"

Alyssa had never shared the contents of her nightmares in much overt detail with Hope. She rarely mentioned the Purge at all, and whenever it was at the tip of her tongue, she would shoot him a cautious look before dropping the subject. Her experience in the Purge was her best guarded secret – aside, evidently, from her fraternizing with Caius – though it was likely not her intention to have done so and more a matter of tact that she exercised now and then.

Her words from the first interview footage rang in Hope's mind and he pursed his lips, almost gulping down the words. "You mean her death was real?"

"It all makes sense if you go from there. Alyssa died in the Purge, but something happened . . . ," Noel trailed off.

"She called herself 'an unstable existence,'" quoted Hope, realization dawning. "For her to have survived after dying, a paradox must have changed her fate."

Hope set the datalog aside. He scrambled onto his feet, almost as if he were possessed, when Noel, sensing his intentions, gripped him by the arm. Tensing under the hold, Hope ceased all movement beyond the turn of his head to meet Noel's eyes.

"You can't see her. She's off limits to you, Hope. She may be under lock and key, but she's one of the prime suspects for your assassination."

"It should be fine if I speak to her over an intercom. I need to confirm this with her," said Hope, his expression tense at the reminder of the Academy's suspicion.

"Are you sure that she won't just ignore you? She gave everyone the cold shoulder."

"Come with me, Noel." At the puzzled look on Noel's face, for he found the suggestion an obvious plan already in motion, Hope continued, "She tried to give you and Serah the fake artefact. Perhaps, if she were to see you, we could draw a reaction from her."

A moment for consideration passed before Noel gave a small nod and relinquished his grip. Clapping his hands against his knees, he leaned forward and rose a stand from the couch. It was late, and they would have to wrangle with the Academy staff on duty for permission, but time was short and they had an apparent lead to present. "Let's go see her, then."


	3. Day 13

Keen to be mobile again, Hope threw himself into therapy. He followed the regimen he had crafted with his providers to the letter, and he received daily visits from his physical therapist to oversee his progress. They started off with safety tips and breathing exercises, which were foundational steps to keep his pain to a minimum, although Hope's pain level tended to lean high as a whole. Medications staved off the worst of the aches, but were contraindicated for exercise, so they settled for less potent alternatives and ice packs during downtime. Either way, Hope was hellbent on expediting his recovery in his quiet way.

His physical therapist praised his industry and reminded him against overexertion, else he might deter the process of recovery, but all Hope did was nod and smile before he continued to stretch. Sometimes Noel watched – after the initial grace period where it had been "just Hope and his therapist," he could no longer and refused to stay away for long – and he would shrug after exchanging looks with the physical therapist.

"Nothing can stop Hope from working," said Noel.

"That's not true," Hope interjected before his physical therapist could ask. "You stop me all the time."

"Perks of being the bodyguard."

"There seems to be many of those."

The physical therapist smiled, pleased by the banter and Noel's privilege to overturn Hope's compulsive habits with work. It was common knowledge around the Academy that their high-level advisor was studious, if not married to his work. He was always the first to arrive and always the last to leave, which had sparked debates on whether he went home to relax at all. As it turned out from a home visit, the place was just another protected work space for Hope, and if he was not in front of a terminal, he was sitting with a datalog on his lap and poring over the latest research. That would have been a cause for concern, but with Noel around to keep tabs, the discussion of stress management between Hope's health care providers had been a little less complicated.

As the regimen neared its end for the day, Hope was left to his own devices in the workout room as his physical therapist pulled Noel out into the hallway. Their words were as muffled as their voices, and Hope chose to give them their privacy without fuss as he focused on breathing. The stretches he undertook in his physical therapy were simple tasks for the able-bodied person, but more akin to running miles for Hope. His skin was clammy, and faint trembles wracked his lanky frame, but the slow breathing techniques opened up his lungs and helped calm his body. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and conjured soothing images in his mind.

By the time he finished his last exhalation, he sensed Noel's presence and felt the tap on his shoulder. His physical therapist was absent – gone back to the Academy, according to Noel.

"There wasn't anything to discuss? What did you two talk about?" asked Hope.

"Just a few things on the home routine," said Noel. "Don't worry. I kept mentions of your work habits to a minimum."

"I don't have a problem with you discussing it with my physical therapist," Hope said as he glanced at the discarded wheelchair off to the side and beckoned to Noel. "There's no reason to hide it. In fact, it's probably helpful to the team."

Noel brought the wheelchair over, then came around to wrap a supportive arm around Hope's shoulders. "Yeah, and it'd get you into a whole lot of trouble if they knew you're averaging four hours of sleep."

With Noel's assistance, Hope took slow, measured, and limping steps over to the wheelchair and sat down. They had gone through the motion enough that Hope no longer felt the burning, juvenile shame of gripping Noel's hand for support, without which he would have fallen. Nowadays, a single wave got the message of his intentions across, and the overall action sat comfortably with Hope as he seamlessly continued, "Four hours is plenty."

"They prescribed you eight hours. At least seven." Noel gestured to himself, then at Hope. "Considering your job, you can do the math better than me."

He was an advisor, thought Hope; the mathematician was Alyssa. Against that initial thought, Hope smiled wryly. "Again with the numbers. If I recall, you held me to one hour last time."

Noel raised his arms up as if he were beholding something wondrous. "And how did that end? With _six_ hours of sleep. You know what that means." He lowered his arms to point at Hope. "I'm holding you to a different kind of one hour tonight."

Hope chuckled, though there was little mirth in the laughter and his voice was faint. With the Academy, he could crunch numbers for hours; however, the simple mathematics of sleep hours in tandem with the weight of his missed work tired him. Frustration welled in his chest and he shook his head. He looked up, mouth open to speak, but was beaten to the punch when he froze and noticed Noel, closer, studying his face.

"Your eyes are glazed over. You're sleepy, aren't you?" asked Noel. "Right – off to bed."

Inclining his head to the side, Hope furrowed his brows. "I just sat down, and it's barely evening. We haven't even had dinner yet."

"What's one meal? We'll eat when you wake up."

"No, Noel," sighed Hope, his shoulders slumping. "There's no sense in going to bed right now."

For a short and tense moment, Noel stared before eventually submitting with a shake of his head. "Fine." He straightened, and, without another word, exited into the hallway, the door left swung open and the sound of his footsteps quickly receding.

Stunned, Hope sat alone in the compact space. Before he could dare to call Noel's name, the footsteps returned and Noel emerged through the open doorway, Hope's datalog in his possession. Hope accepted the datalog with both hands when it was offered to him, and gave a hesitant, stilted nod in thanks.

Rather than wheel him into the living room, where the temperature was warmer and more likely to induce unwanted sleep surrounded by the cozy furniture, Noel had gone over to retrieve the datalog for Hope's perusal in the cooler workout room. As for himself, Noel took a seat in the nearest bench and settled into a comfortable position – leaned back with his arms propped behind him – until it was time for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Noel likes the hallway a lot.


	4. Day 3

It was like being hit by a velocycle – only, there was more explosive force as the blast swept him off his feet and sailed him through the air. He managed no more than a few yards before the handrail caught his lower back with a muted crack. Hope cringed. His vision ran white and his ears rang, scrambling his attempts for purchase on the rail. His effort was ultimately squashed by Noel, who crashed into him.

The burdensome mass jostled him and provoked another muffled crack. In an instant, intense discomfort began to radiate from the base of his spine, and Hope's nerves flared like they had been set aflame. No longer able to support his weight, his knees buckled and he dropped to the hard panel floor under Noel.

Noel pushed off from the mess of tangled limbs and turned, his arms already outstretched to support Hope. His mouth moved, but neither of them could hear the plain to see words: _Can you hear me? Are you okay?_ They both knew, however, that they could hear nothing besides the deafening ringing and that Hope was not all right from his unfocused stare.

Hope's only response was a soundless gasp as he reached for his back with a shaking hand. He had a fair tolerance for pain, but there was a prickly sensation behind his eyes, and his cloudy mind could not formulate a coherent thought. He was thinking in jumbled words, not sentences, and all he could think about was the agony.

He squinted when he was grasped by the arms and looked up to meet Noel in the eyes, who spoke more words that went unheard, but at whose insistence he planted his feet on the floor, almost slipped, and rose to a shaky stand. The pressure of his weight against his spine caused stars to explode in his murky vision. Taking rapid, shallow breaths, he moved when Noel, with an arm wrapped around Hope's shoulders for support, did.

Hindered by Hope's lead-footed steps, their pace was sluggish and sloppy at best. Another explosion set off in the distance, rocking the surroundings, and its wave knocked on them like a jarring shove. A far off chorus of fearful cries echoed near the origin of the blast, followed by an erratic series of gunshots that started to increase in volume.

Hope's knees locked and he collapsed onto his knees, panting. In his descent, his hand slipped down the length of Noel's arm and gripped him by the wrist.

The ringing was beginning to fade when Noel dropped down and grasped Hope by the shoulders. "Just a little more! Your transport's right over there." He inclined his head in the direction of the craft, where nervous Academy personnel, having been separated from the scattered Security Regiment in the chaos, clustered and fumbled for take off.

With a gulp, Hope pushed off the floor. Noel wasted no time hauling their collective weights; Hope's feet dragged, and he all but limped over to the humming craft.

The researchers ushered them inside and shut the hatch behind them. Noel leaned on the wall and sighed, though he held half of his breath in suspense. Beside him, Hope took a shuddering breath as his grip on Noel loosened, then crashed onto the floor.

Everything went dim, if not black, when a pair of strong hands took him by the shoulder and flipped him onto his back. The voices of Academy personnel and Noel, whose face was looming over his, all sounded muffled despite the proximity. An overwhelming haziness washed over Hope's vision, and the controlled shake Noel gave him was not enough to clear it. The pain was stronger – his eyes rolled into his head.

Somewhere in the unfeeling darkness, there was warmth and the gentle caress of restorative magic.

When Hope regained a sliver of consciousness, someone was carrying him on their back through the Academy Headquarters. He could not feel his legs, and he lacked the energy to force a sensation, if it were even possible. But a pair of strong hands supported the back of his knees, holding him in place. He was dimly aware that the craft must have been unprepared for emergencies if he was not on a proper transport; his groggy mind wandered to his cohorts amid the constant throb of pain in his lower back. 

Faint shouts tickled his sore ears and clapped his head like a hammer, but a gesture as simple as a grimace was beyond him. With half-lidded eyes, he took in the blurry visages of more Academy personnel. Seeing their indiscernible faces, he realized that his own face, pressed against the nape of his carrier, was damp from sweat – his bangs were stuck to his skin and hung over his eyes, obscuring his sight.

"Someone" shifted, adjusting their hold on him as they muttered in a voice Hope recognized to be Noel's. "Hang on. Hang on a little longer. You're going to make it."

Hope closed his eyes. He exhaled, and what little of his energy had left was sapped with the breath. The shouts and commands in the background had escalated when he went slack on Noel's back.


	5. Day 18

Noel hunched forward and worked the tips of his fingers against his face. Tension laid over him like another layer of taut skin. As a hunter, he was raised to be hyperaware – cautious of daydreams on the field, unless he had a death wish to throw himself in the jaws of a hungry behemoth, costing his village in the process. He had learned at a young age that, if he failed, it would be more than just him who suffered. He exhaled, a breathy sigh escaping through his nostrils. Knowing that, there was no excuse for his slip, even if Academia was far from resembling the dying world.

According to the doctor, Hope was lucky. His back would be sore for a few days following, but he had avoided the worst case scenario by “simply being.”

“If he weren’t a man of science, I’d say it was a miracle!” the Doctor had exclaimed.

It was a surprise to anyone how well Hope had recovered from the initial accident (“Didn’t you use magic, Noel?”). Nobody had expected him to be on his feet, yet there he had been within the month, hauling himself down the hall on fitted crutches. No amount of fussing from his coworkers could convince him to sit down, because the terminal required him to stand. So Noel had gone to a female researcher with a friendly tone and asked for a chair. Since then, Hope had sat on the stool with his crutches leaning against the edge of the terminal.

After the fall down the stairway, Hope was bound to his residence again. The datalog had returned to his lap, and no amount of pulling or tugging or scolding could pry the device from him. The doctor had prescribed rest. Without a better alternative, Noel relented that Hope could do work at home if that was what it took to distract him from the breakthrough back pain.

All things considered, they were indeed lucky: Hope was alive. Snow’s prophesied assassination never happened if they discounted the botched anti-Academy bombing. Ongoing investigations continued to reveal dissidents, but none as bold or extreme as to target the star of the Academy and Academia combined. Noel suspected the original culprit to be Alyssa, who was still under lock and key. Ultimately, what mattered was that Hope was alive, if ill and sweaty with the pain of a bothered back. Perhaps they could be luckier.

“Noel.”

Noel clenched his fists, his jaws set tightly.

“Noel?”

“Huh?” Noel glanced over his shoulder to where Hope gave him an appraising look. “Sorry. What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything,” said Hope. The datalog lay on his lap, the screen blank from having been switched off.

“Did you want to eat? Or are you feeling tired?” Noel shifted, scooting to face Hope. “Do you want to go to bed?”

Hope stared, his lips parted just the slightest in mid-thought. They twitched at the corners and he shook his head. “No, neither of those is necessary. It’s . . . ”

“Hope?”

“You seem tense. Is something wrong?”

“That’s not rhetorical, is it?”

“I thought so.” Hope folded his bare hands atop the datalog. “We should talk about this.”

“Don’t tell me it wasn’t my fault. It was,” said Noel, hastily but punctuating each word for effect.

“No,” Hope shook his head again, “that isn’t my intention.” He thought it an accident, but to argue with Noel on the details would defeat the purpose of a productive conversation. He closed his eyes as he intertwined his fingers. “But you’ve done more than you realize. Most likely, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you. There’s no feasible way I could have moved myself to the shuttle after the initial blast.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why Snow left me here – to watch you in case things like that happen.”

“And I’m grateful.”

Bowing, Noel sighed. He threw his head back, answering when the ceiling offered him none, “Thanks, Hope.”

Hope smiled, the skin around his eyes crinkling despite the exhaustion set under them. He unfolded his hands. They could always talk more later, now that the window of opportunity had opened. “It’s about time for dinner. How are you feeling?”

“Honestly? I’m starving.”


	6. Day 27

There were days when the pain broke through and exploded his vision with stars. Hope clenched and uncurled his fists in rhythm with his breathing, his eyes screwed shut. Sweat, an ever constant, clung to his brows. Although he was on a fast track to recovery, the rapidity of his improvement had started tapering about a week ago – and while the amount of healing he had covered in that time was staggering, the sudden onset of intense pain he could hardly describe (throbbing, but dull and then sharp or tingling where he bended to accommodate, perpetuating the cycle) was crippling. For the first time since the incident, the term ruthlessly polluted his mind.

He leaned forward, tempted to bury his head in his hands but fearing the repercussions of such flexion. The ache persisted despite his complete numbness. His body craved something, anything – some sort of sign.

There was a restrained exclamation and Noel slid into view, his hand coming down gently on Hope’s back. Hope sucked in a breath. For once, the air that rushed in felt cool, satisfying his hungry lungs.

Noel was asking him a question. Hope strained to look up in order to communicate something sensible amid the jumbled, racing mess of his mind. In the end, nothing would come to his tongue, so he returned the question with another, “Is this how Alyssa felt?”

“You need to take your medicine,” said Noel, thrusting one into view. “Hope, you need to control the pain.”

His throat closed in on itself and Hope took a shallow breath. “I took it. I took it – it’s not helping.”

Noel cursed as he nearly slammed the medicine on the table surface. “Come on. I’m taking you to the doctor.”

But Hope only squinted, unable to comprehend Noel’s muffled words. His vision hazed over and he reached out, ignoring his body’s protest at the sudden movement, to grab hold. His fingers curled around Noel’s forearm before he went tense.

“Hope, you need to see someone.”

“It’s not going to help,” gasped Hope. He wondered if he still had his hold on Noel, or if he had gone so numb that doing so was no longer a possibility. “Noel . . . ”

“What?” Noel crouched, his hand coming down on Hope’s. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t understand.” Forced to choose between speaking and breathing, Hope struggled. Amid the confusion, one thought came cleanly through the rest: This is how Alyssa must have felt. But Noel’s gesture, the dryness and warmth of another human being, soothed his nerves enough for Hope to swallow. “It was never this severe.”

“There’s no point in questioning it now. Focus, Hope. If you’re not going to your doctor, you need to tell me. What can I do?”

For a good minute, Hope found himself muted. He inhaled and exhaled through his nose, fighting back the continuous trembling of his perspiring frame. When he saw Noel’s mouth opening, he pushed off the chair on his weak feet. He just about threw himself at Noel in his fumbling to grasp the other arm. The burden of his weight struck with a vengeance unlike before. Hope shut his eyes, focusing on the dry, welcoming presence.

“She . . . this is how she . . . ,” he stammered.

Slowly, Noel rose. His hands snaked up to Hope’s arms before he guided Hope back into the chair. Then he leaned forward to wrap his arms around the former Director and, gently, pulled him into an embrace.

“Yeah,” he said. “I know. I can’t imagine how much it must hurt. But I’m here. Try to relax.”

Hope could only offer the faintest of nods as, with a weak scowl, he thought: And who did Alyssa have?


End file.
